Where have you been? 1 страница

Bolt sighed. "Actually, I've been to post some letters."

Helen stared at him. "Where?"

"Would you believe the post office?"

"Oh, of course. And naturally I couldn't be invited along."

Bolt looked at her impatiently, "No." His eyes dropped to the tray on the table before her. "What's this? Have you been making coffee, miss?"

Helen nodded. "You called me Helen a few minutes ago. You can go on doing so, if you like. I prefer it to miss!"

Bolt shook his head. "I was concerned about you. It just-slipped out."

"Something else slipped out," murmured Helen moodily. "I happened to mention that I knew his father had been in the Army."

"So?" Bolt shrugged.

"I think he imagines we've been discussing bis affairs." She sighed. "Oh, well -what are you going to do now?"

"If Mr. Lyall's had his coffee I suppose I can get on with lunch."

Helen thrust her hands into the pockets of her pants. "And what about me? What can I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

Helen's mouth turned down at the corners. "You've got to be joking!" she declared unsteadily.

"Apart from that."

"Oh, I don't know." She scuffed her toe. "Don't you ever see anyone here ? I mean, don't you ever have any visitors?"

"Occasionally."

"Who?"

"Friends of Mr. Lyall's."

"Male-or female?"

"Both." Bolt tackled the coffee cups.

Helen digested this. Somehow she had thought he never had visitors. The general assumption that he was either dead or living out of the country had led her to assume that no one knew of his whereabouts. But of course he would have friends - and possibly relatives - who knew he lived here. She would have liked to have asked about his female visitors, but somehow she sensed that on that topic, as with others, Bolt would be uncommunicative.

All the same, she could not prevent the picture of him with some woman from entering her head, and she found the associations distasteful.

"I'm going to my room," she said abruptly, and Bolt looked up in surprise.

"You don't have to," he protested, drying his hands on the towel, but she shook her head and left him.

In her bedroom, she flung herself on the unmade bed and stared moodily up at the ceiling. She felt utterly depressed; everything oppressed her - this house, her circumstances, and most of all Dominic Lyall. What was it about him that disturbed her so? He wasn't handsome, be wasn't even good-looking, although she imagined some women might find his harsh features and deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes a more than adequate compensation. But his attitude towards her had almost always been derisive, and he could be painfully insolent when he chose. So why did he occupy her thoughts like this? Why wasn't she thinking of her father, of the ultimate effect this might have on him? Instead of indulging herself in this wholly unwarranted feeling of emotionalism. It wasn't natural - it wasn't normal; and she deserved to feel depressed.

She deliberately brought a picture of Mike Framley to mind. He was the man her father wanted her to marry. Young, wealthy, good-looking - he was the envy of her friends. And yet he left her cold ... She pulled distractedly at a strand of silky black hair, remembering the revulsion she had felt when he had first kissed her. His lips had been full and moist and she had felt stifled and impatient for it to be over. After that he had kissed her many times and she supposed she had got used to it, but she never enjoyed it. Oh, what was wrong with her? she thought desperately. Why wasn't she attracted to Mike? Why did she stiffen every time he reached for her? Why did the idea of marriage with him fill her with revulsion?

She had thought it was her, that there was something lacking in her make-up, but now she was not so sure. Recalling the way she had reacted to Dominic Lyall's nearness caused a moist heat to dampen her flesh, and she realised she had felt no shrinking inside her at the prospect of the touch of his hands. She felt an overwhelming sense of impotence at the duplicity of her own body. Was she no longer in control of her emotions? Was this what people meant when they talked about a physical attraction? Was that what was wrong with her? Was she becoming infatuated with that cruel, destructive man downstairs? It didn't seem possible, but what other explanation was there?

She jack-knifed into a sitting position. This would not do. She was becoming more and more fanciful. It must be spending so much time on her own, so much time thinking - imagining things.

She slid abruptly off the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom. She felt hot and uncomfortable and decided to take a bath. It would give her something to do and pass a little of the time between now and tonight when she was determined to use that telephone.

During the afternoon she went for a walk with Bolt.

Dominic Lyall ate lunch alone in his study and she had hers with the manservant in the kitchen. Afterwards, when the washing up was done, Bolt suggested they went out for a while and Helen sensed that be was trying in some part to make up for not being able to take her to the post office with him that morning. All the same, she couldn't help but wonder exactly how far to the post office it really was. If Bolt could be there and back in a little over an hour, it couldn't be that far, could it?

But when they went outside she saw tyre tracks flattening the snow leading; towards the lane which she and Dominic had followed to reach the house when he had first brought her here, and she realised they must have a vehicle of some sort.

"Do you - have a car?" she enquired tentatively, as she stood just inside the cow byre watching Bolt shovelling manure from the stalls. If they did, and it seemed likely, perhaps she could use that to make her getaway. Sheba couldn't harm her if she was inside a car.

Bolt leaned on his shovel, looking across at her. "We have a Range Rover," he said amiably.

"Have you?" Helen tried to hide her elation. "I - er -I haven't seen it about."

"Probably because it's kept in a garage," remarked Bolt, returning to his task. "Have you ever driven a four-wheeled drive vehicle?"

Helen forced a light laugh. "Heavens, no. I wouldn't know how to begin," she said blithely.

Bolt seemed to believe her.

"It's not always easy," he said, straightening to rest his back. "Not if you're not used to it."

Helen changed the subject. She had the feeling that Bolt was trying to tell her something, but she didn't want to listen.

Afterwards he took her walking up the hill behind the house. It was, as he had said earlier, much colder, but the exercise sent the blood circulating warmly through her body. She returned to the house feeling distinctly more cheerful, although whether that was because of the walk or because of the knowledge of that Range Rover sitting patiently in its garage she could not be absolutely certain.

She wore another long dress for supper that evening. It was one of her favourites, sapphire blue velvet, with a scooped-out neckline that showed the purity of her camellia-white skin, and long sleeves that came to a point at the wrists. She looped up the wings of ebony hair at each side and secured them with a diamond clasp on the crown of her head, leaving two curling tendrils to hang beside her ears. She wore little make-up at the best of times and tonight she merely enhanced the colour of her eyes with some green eye-shadow and smoothed an amber lipstick over her soft mouth.

Dominic Lyall was in the living room when she entered, helping himself to some Scotch from the bottle beside him, and his eyes flickered over her speculatively without showing any of the admiration she had half hoped for. He did not get up either and she hovered uncertainly by the door, eyeing the cheetah on the hearth, at his feet.

He routed the animal with one suede-booted foot and then said: "Sit down. You'll have to excuse me if I don't get up, but I'm afraid I find it easier to remain seated this evening."

Helen linked her fingers together and moved forward. She wished she had not taken such trouble with her appearance. She felt decidedly over-dressed, -while he, in the black garb he had worn the day before, looked like a silver-haired devil.

When she was seated he poured a small measure of Scotch into a glass, added a splash of soda, and handed it to her. Helen took it because he expected her to do so, but she didn't greatly care for whisky.

"Well?" he said, his tawny eyes insolently appraising. "Is this for Bolt's benefit - or for mine? "

Helen refused to be intimidated. "I'm used to dressing for dinner," she stated coolly. "My father always says that it's good for morale."

"Does he?" Dominic inclined his head in acceptance of this. "And how is your morale this evening?"

Helen was taken aback by his question. "I - I - why do you ask?"

, "Why do women invariably answer one question with another? I'm curious to know how you're enjoying your stay with us."

Helen was angry. "You must know I'm not enjoying it at all! " she exclaimed.

"On the contrary, Bolt tells me you've been walking and sledging and getting plenty of fresh air. Wasn't that what you came north for?"

"I came - north to be independent," she declared impatiently, "not to exchange one bondage for another! "

"Is it as bad as that?"

All of a sudden the mockery was gone from his voice, and that awful weakness was invading her lower limbs. She stared tremulously at him, trying to read the expression in the narrowed eyes between their thick growth of lashes. His mouth had a sensual curve as he returned her gaze and she felt her antagonism towards him melting beneath a surge of wanton longing such as she had never experienced before. The blood was rushing madly through her veins and her breathing was shallow and rapid. She wanted to go to him, to wrap her arms around him, to tell him that if he wanted her here she would never leave, but it was mindless insanity. Her lips parted and her tongue appeared, but before she could speak he rose abruptly to his feet, wincing as he jarred his leg.

He moved across the room, but his pain transmitted itself to her with almost physical perception. On impulse, she rose too and went after him. He was standing with his back to her, his knuckles supporting him on the opened lid of the bureau, and his attitude was one of such dejection that she stood behind him helplessly, and said:

"Are - are you all right?"

"Yes," he muttered, through gritted teeth, without turning. "I'm perfectly all right."

She twisted her hands together. "Are you sure? Is there anything I can get you? Is there anything you need? Are you in pain? Shall I tell Bolt?"

He swung round then, leaning back against the bureau, his lean face mirroring the self-contempt she had come to expect. "Your concern does you credit," he said harshly, and she saw he was a little paler than before. "Particularly after what I said." He drew a deep breath. "But no, Miss

Alone in far bedroom, Helen

(SUSAN PENHALIGON) takes stock

of her forced detention

Breakfast is bad isserved by Bolt (JEREMY KEMP)

Forgetting her problems for the

moment, Helen loses herself in the pleasure of sliding in the snow

Mistrust on both sides ends in open antagonism when Helen and Dominic (KEIR DULLEA) encounter each other

in the kitchen

Dominic reacts fiercely to Helen's

concern for him, suspecting her of trying

to gain her freedom by playing on his emotion

Helen questions taciturn Bolt about Dominic's life

Despite their antagonism, Dominic and Helen can no longer ignore the altraction that draws them to each other

A partial truce declared, Helen and Dominic treat each other warily

Bolt warns Helen that she will be badly hurt if she expects anything from a man as cynical and bitter as Dominic

Dominic betrays more thanmere concern as he ensures thatHelenis

unhurt in the car accident that dooms her escape plans

Once re-established in her London

routine, Helen cannot hide her

preoccupation from boyfriend

Michael (GORDON THOMSON)

Sir Philip James (KENNETH MORE)

greets Helen with relief upon her

return to London

Isobel (BILLIE WHITELAW) advises Helen to return to the man who has affected her so strongly

Helen listens in amazement as Dominic tells her that his operation was a success

James, there's nothing you can do. Thank you."

Helen was tempted to protest, but she could sense the hardening within him find knew it would be useless, and Bolt's arrival at that moment with their supper curtailed any further conversation between diem.

The manservant surveyed their closeness beside the bureau with obvious curiosity, but he merely shrugged and put down the tray while he put the low table in position on the hearth. Dominic limped back to his seat and Helen did likewise, but she looked up in surprise when he said:

"Join us, Bolt. I'm sure Miss James finds your company more enjoyable than mine."

Bolt hesitated, but something seemed to pass between him and his master and with a smile, he accepted the invitation. "Thank you, sir, I'd like that."

"Good. A cosy supper for three."

Dominic stretched indolently in his chair, his injured leg resting on the wrought iron fender that surrounded the fireplace. Looking at him Helen wondered why it was that his every movement held such a sexual fascination for her, but when he caught her eyes upon him she could not read his expression.

And of course, it was not cosy at all. Helen was supremely conscious that Dominic's invitation to Bolt had been somehow stimulated by the scene that had taken place before the manservant's arrival, and she found herself in the ignominious position of feeling that he was deliberately showing her that her behaviour was nothing but an embarrassment to him. To him!

Helen felt sick and humiliated. What was it that possessed her so that when he looked at her in a certain way she forgot her antagonism and had no defence against him? Did he know what he whs doing? Or was it an involuntary attraction? Or did some perverted streak in his nature find amusement in her stumbling naiveté?

She ate very little of the fried chicken Bolt had prepared, but fortunately the two men found plenty to talk about, to each other, and her lack of enthusiasm for the food was not commented upon.

When the meal was over, and the two men were smoking cheroots, Dominic looked across at Helen and deliberately, she thought, he said: "I think I'll do some work this evening, Bolt. I'm not tired. I rested this afternoon while you were out. I feel like burning the midnight oil."

Bolt shook his head. "So long as you don't overdo it," he commented dryly.

"Oh, I won't." Dominic stretched lazily, his eyes on Helen's suddenly frustrated face. "But if we're to leave here soon, I must get on with the book."

Helen looked down at her hands locked together in her lap. She was almost sure now that he was aware that she had seen the telephone in his study, and this was his way of warning her not to come and try to use it tonight. A choking tightness closed round her throat and her nails curled painfully into her palms. How could she ever feel anything but loathing for someone who constantly used her to gratify his own sadistic sense of humour?

CHAPTER SIX

During the next couple of days Helen had no opportunity to seek any means of escape. She awoke on the morning following the supper party with a throbbing head, a burning throat, and a streaming nose. When Bolt appeared with her breakfast, he insisted on taking her temperature, and after that he refused to allow her to get out of bed.

"You don't want to get pneumonia, do you?" he asked reprovingly, when she protested weakly that she couldn't put upon him in this way. "This has been coming for a few days, if you ask me - ever since the afternoon you arrived when you got soaked. You stay where you are and I'll bring you some hot water bottles. You're not fit to go downstairs and you know it."

Helen did know it. She felt terrible, and it was a great relief to abandon herself to Bolt's administrations, knowing that he would think no worse of her for giving in. She didn't want to think what Dominic Lyall's reactions might be, and as she slept for the most of that day thoughts of him did not intrude upon her aching brain.

The next morning she felt considerably better, but not strong enough to get up, and Bolt brought all her meals upstairs, dismissing her apologies with casual inconsequence. He brought her some books up, too, paperbacks mostly from the shelves in the living room, and Helen spent the day reading and sleeping and generally regaining her strength. Once or twice when she heard footsteps on the stairs she tensed, half expecting Dominic Lyall to come and see how she was, but only Bolt ever came into her bedroom.

The third morning found her almost fully recovered. She was in her dressing gown when Bolt brought her breakfast tray and smiled away his assertions that she ought not to be out of bed.

"I'm much better, really I am," she exclaimed, looking at him appealingly. "And I do want to thank you for looking after me as you have, bringing me aspirins and cough medicine and hot water bottles. I don't know how to thank you."

Bolt shook his head. "I was glad to do it, miss."

"Helen."

"All right, Helen." He grinned. "Well, I'm glad to see you're better, but I'd suggest you didn't get up until this afternoon. Give yourself a chance. You've just spent two whole days in bed."

"I'll think about it," she promised, moving over to the tray. "Hmm - mushrooms and bacon. I shall enjoy that."

After Bolt had gone about his business, Helen ate her breakfast and then wandered to the window. It was a fine morning, if a trifle overcast, but at least no more snow had fallen since she became ill. She turned to survey her bedroom and then on impulse went into the bathroom and washed and cleaned her teeth. She was tired of staying in her room, and now that she felt so much better she wanted to be up and about She could always sit in the living room. And she would have Bolt to talk to. She refused to consider Dominic Lyall's feelings in the matter. He had not even bothered to come and ask how she was feeling. And she couldn't help that rankling a little.

She dressed in tight jeans and a cream shirt and taking her tray with her went downstairs. Bolt was not in the kitchen and she put down the tray and looked about her. It was amazing, but already this place possessed a certain familiarity for her, a feeling of association that she had never experienced in the house her father shared with Isabel.

Looping her hair behind her ears, she looked out of the kitchen windows wondering where Bolt could be. Had he gone to the shops again, or was he outside feeding the animals?

The cold storeroom door stood wide and a sound from within made her turn in surprise.

"Bolt?" she said tentatively. "Bolt, is that you?"

She went to the door of the storeroom and looked inside, and then noticed that there was another door at the far side of the storeroom, and it stood wide, too. Frowning, she moved slowly across to the second door and saw a flight of stairs leading down.

A ripple of excitement slid over her It was like the thriller she had been reading the day before. A secret door - a hidden staircase; and beyond...

She began to descend the stairs. She was sure now that Bolt was at the bottom. They probably led to the cellars of the house. No doubt Bolt stored supplies down here.

At the foot of the stairs, it seemed that she was right. She was standing in a cellar lit by a single bulb hanging by its cord. But Bolt was not here and as she looked around she saw another door standing slightly ajar.

With an inescapable feeling of trespass she went towards the inner door and opened it silently, stifling a gasp when she saw what lay beyond. No ordinary cellar this, but a magnificently equipped gymnasium with vaulting horses and wall bars, rings suspended from the ceiling, ropes and a punch-ball, and machines for exercising. She walked into the middle of the room looking about her in amazement, realising that this was why there was not an ounce of spare flesh on Dominic Lyall's muscular body in spite of his enforced inactivity.

At the end of the gymnasium another door opened into a kind of changing area, panelled in Swedish wood with an adjoining shower room. It was quite hot in here, the atmosphere was moist, and Helen found that she was seating. The heat seemed to be coming from beyond another door and without giving herself time to have second thoughts she turned the handle and looked inside. A feeling of intense excitement filled her. The inner room was a sauna, lit by a dull orange light and incredibly hot. A man was lying face downward on a slab in the middle of the floor, and even as she realised it was Dominic, be said impatiently:

"For God's sake, hurry up, Bolt. I've got work to do."

Helen caught her breath. He had obviously heard the door open and assumed it was Bolt. If he turned round now and saw her... Her cheeks flamed. She had never seen a man unclothed before, not in the flesh.

While she was hesitating about dosing the door again and fleeing back to the comparative safety of the upper floors he spoke again. "Just here," he said, stretching one hand to indicate a spot on his back just below the level of his hips. "It aches!"

Helen felt her stomach contract nervously. If she didn't do something soon he could be bound to turn and see her. She ought to go. She ought to leave now while she had the chance and not risk his discovering her there. But something, something stronger than the desire to make her escape, was urging her to stay. She knew she was a fool. She knew she was inviting further humiliation; but she closed the door and advanced into the room. She had guessed Bolt was a masseur and she knew sufficiently much to believe she could emulate him for a while without discovery.

Her hands were trembling as she laid them on the small of his back and began smoothing the muscles that supported his spine. There was a moment when he stiffened and she thought he was about to turn and confront her, but then he relaxed again find her confidence strengthened her fingers. She kneaded the flesh more firmly, stimulating the circulation. The heat in the room made his skin damp and because she was fully dressed she grew even hotter. Her breathing quickened, and just when she thought she would have to give up because her arms were aching, he rolled on to his back, dragging a towel over his lower limbs.

Helen's lips parted in alarm, but his eyes showed nothing but a faint admiration. "You're good;" he remarked, without a trace of embarrassment.

But Helen was embarrassed. He was decidedly too attractive in this mood, and she had enjoyed touching him too much.

"I - I - how did you know it was me?" she exclaimed.

Dominic smiled, a lazy smile that showed his even white teeth. "Bolt has a much heavier hand," he replied "Why did you do it?"

Helen looked down at her wet hands, making an involuntary gesture. "I - I wanted to," she answered honestly.

Dominic's eyes narrowed and he sat up on the slab in one lithe easy movement. "That's a very provocative thing to say," he commented quietly.

"Is it?" Helen was glad of the orange light to hide the brilliant colouring her cheeks.

"You know it is."

Rivulets of perspiration were running down his arras and his chest, his hair was artificially darkened by the damp atmosphere. But Helen did not move away. His eyes were on a level with hers and there was none of that mockery in them that she had grown to expect. On the contrary, they had a disturbingly sensuous softness, and her throat felt suddenly dry. He put out his hand, curving it behind her neck, under the weight of her hair, his thumb probing her jawline. Still she did not move. She felt riveted to the spot.

"Oh, Helen," he groaned huskily, and propelled her face to his, his mouth moving caressingly against her cheek and around the parted softness of her mouth.

She stood in that partially stooped position, her knees trembling, waiting for the revulsion she usually felt at the touch of Mike's lips to come. But it didn't Instead, she moved her face against his, seeking his mouth with her own, and when it finally made contact all her preconceived ideas of what kissing could be were dispelled by a force of emotion stronger than herself. Dominic's mouth parted hers, it wasn't soft and moist, but hard and demanding, and the pressure of his hand on her neck increased until she stumbled against the slab and was gathered close to the lean strength of his body. Dominic swung his legs to the floor, holding her against him, his hands cupping her nape as he continued to kiss her.

"Dear God!" he muttered unevenly, lowering his mouth to the scented hollow between her breasts, visible above the open neckline of her shirt. "This is insanity! "

Helen hardly heard him. Her arms were about his neck, her hands were in the thick hair which grew low on his neck, she was beyond coherent thought in a world Where only she and Dominic existed, where it was imperative that he should go on holding her and kissing her in this urgent, passionate way, making her overpoweringly conscious of his own throbbing masculinity.

His hands at last closed over her upper arms and with a supreme effort he put her away from him, getting to his feet and wrapping the towel about his hips. He raked his fingers through his hair add then limped awkwardly away from her, bearing down heavily on his uninjured leg.

Helen watched him helplessly. "Dominic..." she murmured questioningly. "Dominic, is something wrong?"

He cast an impatient glance at her over his shoulder. "For God's sake, Helen, you can't be that naive! You know what's wrong!" he responded violently. "Have you any idea what you're doing to me?"

Helen licked her lips. "I - I know what you're doing to me," she ventured.

He swung round irritably. "You shouldn't have come down here," he muttered vehemently. "I shouldn't have let you -" He broke off abruptly. "I think you'd better go."

Helen stared at him disbelievingly. She couldn't accept his summary dismissal. She was on fire with an emotion She only vaguely understood, but that Dominic was the instigator of that fire she had no doubt.

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